


The Mouse's Sentiment

by SherlockianBrowncoatSG1



Series: The Morgue Mouse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly, F/M, Face to face with history, Gen, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Molly Saved Sherlock, Original Character(s), Sequel, Sitting on the roof, The Mouse Roars, eating brownies with Sherlock, repercussions of the Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2307317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianBrowncoatSG1/pseuds/SherlockianBrowncoatSG1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be read after "The Mouse Roars," takes place six months after Jim Moriarty is brought down. Molly and Sherlock meet up on St. Bart's roof for a much needed discussion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up on the Roof

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I do not own anything that has to do with the Sherlock franchise. Molly Hooper belongs to BBC, while the other amazing characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
> The only characters I lay claim to are Pa and Max.  
> Please leave your comments to let me know if you like this Molly!

Her hair whipped around, the wind tugging at the ponytail while painting her pale cheeks rosy.

Her lab coat flared behind her on a particularly stiff gust of wind, an angel's wings catching the breeze.

Her sensibly shod feet kicked against the rough stone wall of the hospital, dangling over the deadly abyss that had changed so many people's lives three years earlier. 

The wind rustled through the faded paper remnants of a city's belief. Beside her on the low wall that she sat on, a blood red rose trembled with each gust. Six or seven feet away, near the roof's entrance, another rose tossed and turned against the papers. A faded rust colored puddle was nearly lost amongst the bright yellow ciphers and deerstalker outlines.

One last rose, sat nestled against her khaki trousers, the white petals gleaming against the grey stone.

Doctor Molly Hooper, pathologist and all around sweetest girl in London, sat with her feet dangling off of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. 

The place of her work. The place of her passion. The place where death meets her steady hands and answers were found. The place where a man she had dated, pushed the man she loved, to make a jump that was supposed to kill him. The place where she found out that she counted.

 _Morbid little Molly_ , her friends whispered. She shrugged it off and walked to the roof with her paper sack lunch. No matter when that lunch might take place, late at night or early in the morning. Instead of sitting in the canteen, she found herself with feet dangling on the quiet roof.

It had started two weeks after Sherlock Holmes took his great fall. The pitying looks, the whispered pointing, the 'I-told-you-sos' nudges; all ignorant arrogant sneers of people who didn't understand what happened. To keep the secret, she had started disappearing instead of mingling with the few people who could handle her job. She found her little niche up on the roof, staring off into the distance and seeing London's heartbeat throb along without the great Sherlock Holmes.

Even though the detective was back, Molly still found herself up on the roof. Six months after Moriarty found his way into her morgue and the British Government took him off to a prison that was not even whispered about, she sat with her feet dangling over the roof's wall. Six months since her cracked skull had healed, she was finally back to her full work schedule without any changes.

Molly had had double vision for nearly a month after the attack, not to mention the pain due to her broken ribs. Due to the delicate work that she had to do, she had taken a few months to teach before allowing herself back at the autopsy table, just to make sure she was totally up to snuff.

It was good to hold a scalpel again rather than just watching her students learn how to carve cadavers.

With a smile, she kicked her feet against the side of the hospital as she heard the door swiftly open, and took another bite from her thick gooey homemade brownie. She held another large brownie wrapped in clear wax paper up over her head.

"Took you long enough!" Molly said thickly through the chocolate coating her tongue.


	2. Faith in Sherlock

Sherlock walked through the heavy door leading to the roof.

Unknowingly, he took a deep breath as his foot hit the rough texture of the shingles on the flat plane. With an absent minded realization, he noticed that his heart rate picked up.

_Racing.  
_ _Adrenalin.  
_ _Remembered_.

With a shake of his curly head, he controlled his heart rate and other bodily remembrances of that day a few years ago.

Stepping further out onto the grey gravel tarp floor, the door slammed shut with an metallic echo.

The strains of ' _Stayin' Alive_ ' reverberated through his memory as he viewed the fluttering white lab coat on the short wall. Thankfully, sweet Molly rarely wore black, especially as a coat. Sherlock was not sure what his disjointed mind would have done if she had. It was hard enough to keep Moriarty from superimposing his dark imprint on the moment.

"Took you long enough!" Unexpectedly, a small smile graced Sherlock's chiseled face.

He could practically hear how gooey that homemade brownie was, by the thickness to Molly's lilting voice.

As he started to walk across the distance to join his pathologist, small flutterings caught his attention.

A dark red rose, so dark it was nearly black, rocked back and forth next to a faded brownish stain. Another flutter drew his eye to travel the length of the roof. Plastered all over St. Bart's roof were numerous pamphlets. Faded from three years of weather, declarations of believing in Sherlock Holmes littered the historical building.

Bright yellow lines and circles, taken from descriptions of Dr. Watson's blog, were painted in bold defiance over court photos of Moriarty. That same neon yellow was formed into silhouettes of the death Frisbee hat. It all combined into one clear meaning that rocked the great detective to his core. A cipher of faith.

Faith in him. Faith in his abilities. Faith in his power of deductions.

Even more deeply though, acceptance.

Sherlock felt a burning in his eyes. With a shuddering breath, he pushed it aside. He could not, would not, think about it right now.

He packed up all the emotions and thoughts and visual cues into a room in his mind palace. Straightening his shoulders, he continued across the expanse of that memorable roof. The wind whipped his long Belstaff coat around his legs with sharp snaps as his long legs took him to the edge.

His eyes took in the slim figure in white, who dangled her legs with little regard over the dangerous crevasse below. Each gust of wind seemed to delight in dancing in the pathologist's gleaming brunette ponytail even as it caressed a bright red rose that quivered on the short wall.

"Really, Molly?" Sherlock faked an exasperated sigh as he swung his legs over the edge, to dangle his own feet over the very fall that changed everything those few years ago.

"Do shut up, Sherlock." Molly Hooper stuck her chocolate laden tongue out at him. "And here. Eat."

Passing over the waxed wrapped square of heaven on earth, he knew she could hear the strangled gurgle of hunger come from the slim man's stomach. A throaty chuckle caressed Sherlock's ears as he peeled back the wax.

The smell of thick chocolate brought back memories that forced Sherlock to close his eyes for a moment.

They nearly overwhelmed his mind palace...


	3. Memories & Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mind palace takes him back to the night of the Fall as he bites into Molly's homemade brownie.

_Sherlock had finally shaken loose of the last of the chemical cocktail that Molly had pumped into his veins to aid in the fooling of John. While he had been able to walk and even converse, his mind had started to sharpen after he walked into Molly's loft._

_The scent of that small abode had cleared out the last of the cobwebs. The hint of cat hair and clay, thanks to little Toby, who started meowing for attention. The pleasant combination of formaldehyde and lemon twisted with Molly's preferred pomegranate body wash; inherently the scent that made Molly, work and dreams. Overlaying it all, the thick scent of chocolate. He could practically smell the gooeyness of whatever she had baked, oozing through the air._

_His beleaguered stomach let out a protest as the scent somehow seemed to coalesce into something he could chew. Unexpectedly, he suddenly realized his teeth were actually chewing a thick substance. Looking down, he saw within his hand a chocolate brownie, so rich that strings of the brown melted cocoa dangled off of the bite marks._

_"Chocolate. It might not actually MAKE everything better, but it at least gives us a chance to pretend for a little bit that it will be." Molly gave a small sad smile from the other side of the table. With a sigh, she nudged Toby away from the brownie on her own plate and snuggled him closer to her slight form._

_Sherlock could see the strain of the past day on her face. It seemed as if the young pathologist had aged ten years in a matter of hours. A tug in his chest made him grimace as he reflexively rubbed at it._

_Words rarely spoken shuddered through his lips, "Thank you, Molly."_

_"Anytime….I mean…not ANYTIME. But, whenever you need…" with an annoyed huff, Molly blew away the wisps of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. Shaking her head, she murmured, "You're welcome."_

_No scathing remarks came from the detective as he sat in the darkened cozy kitchen. The weight of the day settled on his shoulders, bowing them as if giving physical pain to the actions that he had taken._

_"I know I should not ask. It is not fair." His elegant fingers played with the small bits of melted chocolate that clung to his skin. It is not as if he could not say the words, but he almost had a fear of speaking them. Of giving them life._

_Molly's own small hand settled over his wrist. "Sherlock. They are my friends too. It's not just my job, but it is my privilege to care for them. It's going to wreck them all in some way. But, John? He'll need watching."_

_Looking at her, Sherlock realized that Molly saw more than she ever said. In a way, Molly reminded him of well, himself. But, gentler, more human, actually able to work in the confines of the human construct of society. Able to abide by some of the unspoken rules that always flabbergasted him. Molly Hooper, in all her awkwardness, was actually a genius when it came to the human interaction game. Despite his snarky comments of her failure in dating._

_He always knew that she was extremely intelligent. You do not become one of the youngest pathologists to take over a lab like St. Bart's without being incredibly nimble of mind. Plus, in his own inflated ego's mind he could acknowledge, he could not work with an idiot. He never made the connection though, that her intelligence was not limited only to pathology, but rather to the intricacies of seeing the way life wove relationships together. Of seeing things thought concealed; emotions, thoughts. Like Molly knowing he wasn't okay._

_He also knew, deep to his core, that Molly would take care of his 'family.' These odd people that somehow decided to connect their existence to his. The very people who seemed to accept him in all of his weirdness. Molly, in her unobtrusive way, would flit between Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John, probably even Mycroft. Checking on them, feeding them when the time arose, badgering them to get back to work or to life, gently focusing their minds on the moments that frustrated them all in regards to Sherlock, so they could remember how to laugh again. Molly Hooper, everyone's friendly counselor, would shoulder the pain, anger, and ultimately the betrayal, so that Sherlock's friends would survive._

_"Also, I have a plan for making a Death by Chocolate cake that has Mycroft written all over it." Molly's impish grin made a rusty chuckle roll out of Sherlock. "I'll make sure he gets it after the ….funeral." Her mischievous voice trailed off, the fake death back on the table._

_Pushing away from the table, she took the used plates to the sink. Staring out from the small window, she whispered, "Just…Be safe. Remember, you do have a life. There are people who need you. You aren't a…a robot or anything. You need to come back. Please?"_

_Dabbling in the chocolate one last time, Sherlock finally licked the dark comfort from his fingers. Clearing his throat, "I promise that I will try. I will be doing some very…dangerous activities. Removing Moriarty's network will be involved. It is worldwide, Molly."_

_He watched her slim shoulders straighten. "I guess that is all I can ask."_

_"I promise." Sherlock vowed one last time._

_"Despite many failings, Sherlock, I know one thing about you." Molly turned from the sink. His eyebrow rose in question. "When you promise about something important, when John is in the cross-hairs, you always come through."_

_Unsure of how to answer to that, he nodded._

_Molly pointed to a door off the hallway. "Spare room. I'm sure you'll be gone before I get up. Please make sure Toby stays in."_

_Absently drying her hands on her trousers, she started to pass the silent man who took up so much of her little kitchen. Pausing near him, she suddenly leaned down and pressed a kiss into his curls. "Stay safe." She whispered into them._

_Less than a moment later, her door softly closed as Sherlock sat in the darkness._


	4. Rooftop Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly talks some truth to Sherlock

Molly finished up her thick brownie as her companion was sucked into his mind palace. She had long ago become aware of the signs that heralded those occasions. Anything that was happening in the present moment disappeared from Sherlock's vision. He was dragged into whatever construct that his mind has made for him to collect information, so he could view the little puzzle pieces later and eventually make the big picture. Nothing would kick him out of it unless something registered as dangerous. 

So she sat with her feet dangling over the wall of St. Bart's roof, licking the dark chocolate off her fingers as she waited for him to come to terms with what happened here three years ago. 

It was past time for him to work through what had happened. She knew him and his inability to acknowledge the power of the emotions that have been driving him. Even though Sherlock had done a fabulous job at John's wedding, Sherlock still had not come to understand the impact of his actions on all involved. 

She thought it was about time for that to change. 

With a muffled gasp, Sherlock came back to the present. Molly waited for him to realize that he had finished eating the chocolate brownie in the midst of his palace exploration. A disappointed moue came on his handsome face, when he noticed the crumpled wax paper in his hand, which made a chuckle roll out of Molly before she could stop it. 

Sherlock looked up with the barest hint of annoyance in his changeable eyes. "What? Why do you insist on laughing at me all the time?" 

Sarcasm dripped off of her winging eyebrow, as Molly turned her face to look at Sherlock in the eyes. "Laughing? I rarely laugh at you Sherlock, unless you act like a true child. Such as that pout that you are sporting…Hasn't John trained you out of that yet?" With a shake of her head she passed over one more large wax paper square. 

Quick as lightening, his thunderous pout turned into a shining smile. 

"You know, for a man who has to be forced to eat most of the time, I never would have realized you had such a sweet tooth." Molly observed. 

Already three bites in, Sherlock paused. "I do not have a sweet tooth. I just…like your brownies is all." 

Molly felt a faint blush sweep across her cheeks as she hastily turned into the wind. "So, have you been up here since the Fall?" Plowing straight to the point of the rooftop visit, she steered the conversation onto emotional rocky ground. 

Clearing his throat as he rolled up the wax paper, he admitted, "No, I have not." 

"Didn't think so." 

Sherlock's long fingers fiddled with the two balls of paper as Molly's own smoothed over the white rose on her lap. 

"Molly, I am sorry. For bringing him to your door. For having you get caught in the middle of it all." The name didn't need to be acknowledged for them to both know who Sherlock was talking about. "I am so sorry." 

Molly turned to look at him in the eye again, and seeing the sincere anguish in them she reached over and put her hand on his wrist. "Sherlock, you are not to blame! Stop it right now! You did not create Moriarty, you did not aim him at me or any of the rest of the team. He was an extremely intelligent man who had been in control of global crime for a long time. For God's sake! The government knew there was 'someone' who seemed to be pulling strings, but had no clue who it was! Stop it. Understand?"

"I understand all of that Molly…" Sherlock sighed. Reaching up he placed his large hand on Molly's chin bringing her hand with his, angling it so he could look fully on the scars that were engraved near her lips. "…but, I see this. Scars. Scars you are going to carry for the rest of your life because of my actions." He rubbed his thumb along the healing wounds that were turning silver as the weeks passed from the attack. 

Fighting the shiver that wanted to dance across her spine at his touch, Molly gripped his wrist tighter. "You listen to me Sherlock. You played the game, yes. You wanted the riddle, yes. You craved the puzzle, yes. That is all true. You loved the dance that Moriarty put before you. BUT. That does not make you guilty of his crimes. You didn't strap some poor woman in a bomb vest. You sure as hell didn't put John in one. You jumped to save your friends from him. In every evil act he committed with his intelligence, you stopped it with yours. John's friendship woke you up more than anything else. You chose to leave a friendship for two years, a friendship that grounded you in the present and out of the puzzles, to protect that friendship. THAT is very different from the mayhem that Jim played in. You might not to believe it, but Sherlock, you have a heart. It governed your actions that day. So stop putting another man's crimes on your shoulders." 

Her impassioned speech faded as Sherlock's eyes darkened. Rubbing the scars again with his thumb as the wind picked up carrying his crisp scent to her nose, she suddenly felt off balance. The fall before her was more dangerous than any rooftop jump could ever be. This was a different Sherlock than she was used to and she wasn't sure what was going to come out of his mouth next. She didn't known if he was going to start spouting scientific jargon, kiss her (oh please, Lord, yes!), or decide to see if he could fly again (he better not!).


	5. Kissing Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly defends Sherlock and Molly gets her scars kissed.

  **Chap 5 Kissing Scars**

 

The scars were starting to lose their rigid feel, he thought, as his thumb followed a particular curve, that they were starting to soften. Such a shocking feel on such soft skin. Violence's damaging filigree forever etched into her face.

Sherlock could feel the change of her pulse and breath, as his large hand cupped not only her small chin, but her neck as well. Molly Hooper was struggling with desire. He thought of how just a few short years ago he would have used that desire against her, twisting it so that he could get whatever he wanted from her. He had come to the realization rather late, that he never had to manipulate her to help him, Molly had always been willing to help her friends. Sherlock had somehow become her friend without knowing the how, where, or when. Or even, why.

Unbidden, a vague memory arose as his thumb swiped over Molly's skin yet again. It was when he was little, and Mycroft has pushed him off of the teeter-totter, making him hit his head. Sherlock had ran into the kitchen where his mother was cooking. When she had seen her young son's tears, she had said, "Ah, my poor boy. Here, a kiss will make it all better." She had pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead where a small red bump had appeared.

Allowing the memory to guide his actions, Sherlock leaned over and pressed his lips close to Molly's own wind chilled lips.

With a shuddering breath, Molly quoted, "Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you."

"What?" Sherlock leaned back, watching Molly kick her feet nervously against the side of the hospital.

"My scars tell a story. They are a reminder of times when life tried to break me, but failed. They are a marking of where the structure of my character was welded." She recited.

"You are chattering." Sherlock said with a gentle amusement.

Molly winced when a particular nervous kick banged her heel with enough force that Sherlock actually leaned out to check her foot.

"My dad used to repeat those quotes to me when he came home from war. Then he found out about the cancer…" Molly sighed. Sherlock watched her finger the white rose. "He collected more than his share of scars over the course of his life."

"Your dad? Not Pa?" Sherlock thought back to the man who had come to the hospital after Moriarty had struck. Max was most definitely her brother, and "Pa" was related to both of them. He knew that.

"Dad died when I was fourteen. Mom died about three years later. Pa helped when Dad died, and then took over my care when Mom passed away. Max is a couple years older and could have had me live with him, even was willing, but Pa refused. Said he needed to focus on graduating. So Pa, actually it's Uncle Paiton, took me with him while he did his, uhm, missions. It was better that people thought I was his daughter." Molly didn't look at Sherlock as she told her story. "Anyways, they are quotes that my Dad used to say to make Mom feel better about people staring at his scars. They always stuck with me."

Sherlock nodded his head, as he remembered the enlarged photograph on Molly's living room wall. There had been a handsome woman with her arm thrown around a life-hardened man's shoulders pressing a kiss to a scarred cheek. The woman had her hair up in a ponytail similar to the one that always graced Molly's head at work, while the man, though twisted by battle wounds, had features that resembled Molly. Paiton, had vaguely similar looks, but not the special blend that made up Molly. His curiosity snagged on Paiton's 'missions' that Molly had been part of, but now was not the time to ask.

"So honestly, Sherlock. The scars aren't your fault. Just leave them be. If you insist on putting the blame on yourself, at least make it so that it reminds you to be a better man." Molly shook the rose at him in frustration.

Sherlock held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright my fierce little mouse. I will try to be a better man."

The tall detective could swear the woman next to him on the roof growled. Then he was lambasted by said little mouse; "You ARE a better man! Who screwed up your thinking so much that you can't see that you are a good man? Bad men do not protect their friends with their lives. Instead they take them. Like someone we might know?! YOU ARE NOT MORIARTY! Argh!!"

For such a small fist, Molly sure could pack a wallop in her swing. She also managed to do it with such grace that she didn't even upset her precarious position on the roof wall. The punch reverberated through Sherlock's shoulder and he had a feeling he would have a nice bruise there come the morning.

"You sure hit me a lot." Sherlock grumbled as he rubbed his abused shoulder. John could almost take some pointers from the little pathologist, he thought.

"You sure are an idiot a lot." Molly grumbled back at him. She primly rested her weapons back in her lap, gently holding the rose, as if they were out to tea.

He could not help the genuine smile that crept across his face. Molly would always protect him, even if it was from verbal abuse that came from himself. John Watson protected him in a physical way, making sure he would not slip back into addictions. Molly Hooper on the other hand, saw where those addictions came from, and she set about fixing the actual problem. Problems that Sherlock never really acknowledged, and always put down to being a byproduct of being a 'high-functioning sociopath.' Perhaps he was the one who needed to do some research. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you." ~~Unknown
> 
> "My scars tell a story. They are a reminder of times when life tried to break me, but failed. They are a marking of where the structure of my character was welded." ~ Dr. Steve Maraboli


	6. Deerstalker Missives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brownies and poignant missives are delivered

**Chap 6 Deerstalker Missives**

Across town, in New Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade came in from closing a particularly brutal domestic violence case that had ended in a murder-suicide. Two young girls had become victims of their father's rage. Frustrated with life at the moment, he threw his overcoat at the overflowing chair toppling case files. Plopping down behind his desk, he watched as more files cascaded down from beneath the fabric. He knew he should get up and collect the papers before they got mixed up, but he was so tired.

Lestrade hated cases like this. Ones were truly innocent people were harmed because of another person's anger. "I'm getting too old for this." Scrubbing his hands through his premature grey hair as he swung his seat around, he stared glumly out the window.

He wondered if he was doing any good. If he was really helping anyone. "Thirteen more years…" Not that he was counting till retirement, "or a bullet…" He sighed. Maybe it was time to take a vacation.

"With who?" Greg snorted. Glancing down at his bare ring finger, he refused to go down that road again. She was gone. Sleeping her way through her lawyer's office, probably. Sherlock Holmes was right about that one, of course. _Jackass_.

Lifting his eyes back up to the window, his gaze was snagged on a pastry box in yellow and pink stripes. Nestled in the ribbon bow, was a white rose.

Furrowing his brow, he picked up the unexpected box. It was not on his desk, where most people would have dropped it. Sniffing, he could smell the deep scent of chocolate emanating from the box. He knew that scent. With an eager smile, he unwrapped the bow, setting the rose on his desk. A folded square of white paper tumbled onto his lap, as he pulled the top off of the box.

Sitting on wax paper, was the most decadent chocolate brownie that he had ever had the pleasure of tasting before. "Sweet Molly. You always know." Even as he unfolded the note, he was biting into the brownie.

_Thank you for seeing something special in him. You could have easily have thrown him in the slammer when he was high and no one would have argued. He's a prat. We both know that. But, we both know that he can change. I think, Greg, with your help, he's finally becoming the 'good' man we knew he could be. You are part of that._

At the bottom of the white paper, was a bright yellow deerstalker outline.

Greg realized then, that it was the third anniversary of Sherlock Holmes' Fall. And Molly of course used it as a reminder. Even though Sherlock actually hadn't killed himself, they had gone through the grieving process. Sherlock had become a son to Greg without either of them realizing it. Greg had had to bury his son. His heart still seized when he thought of those dark days. Of the doubt that had settled in his mind, even while his heart raged at him that Greg knew Sherlock.

As he finished his brownie, he stared back out at the window. Maybe, he had another year to give. Standing up, he settled the white rose on the note. Straightening his shoulders, he grabbed his overcoat while scooping up the files.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had some work to do.

***************

Philip Anderson came into New Scotland Yard, carrying old files. He was back to work finally, but right now he was going through old files. But, he was back at work. Cold cases mattered.

Trekking down the basement passage, he came to his small desk that was shoved into a corner near the archives. As he set the files down on the clean surface, he caught sight of a yellow and pink stripped package when he pulled out his seat. A rose was tied in the ribbon.

Confused, he brought it up to the desk. Noticing the folded paper tucked into the ribbon, he pulled it free.

_You kept believing, Philip. It took you awhile, but you realized that Sherlock was real. You made sure London didn't forget him. Thank you. Remember that your words have power, and remember to use them for good rather than to tear someone down. Thank you for believing in Sherlock Holmes._

Bright yellow paint formed a deerstalker outline in the corner of the paper.

Anderson swiped his eyes that were burning from the cold air from the archives, not tears. Pinning the note with the rose onto his bulletin board, he pulled open the box. A thick square of chocolate brownie sat staring back at him.

He dug into the chocolate absolution. One day, he'll be back upside in the Yard, but right now he was doing something important. Cold cases mattered, fresh eyes saw new clues.

Who knew? Maybe he'll find a clue to catch Sherlock Holmes' attention.

************************

Sally Donovan slammed down the desk phone. "Gotta be kidding me!"

She whirled her chair around to the desk that abutted her, ready to rail at Anderson. Her umbrage deflated as she was once again hit with the realization that things were still different. A startled look from the young recruit, so new that he still squeaked when he walked, brought a growl from Sally.

"Sherlock _freaking_ Holmes." Muttering, she turned back to her computer.

She had managed to keep from calling him 'Freak' to his face since he came back from his Fall. But Sally and Sherlock would never be best friends. His arrogance and the Holmes family idea of being better than everyone else, would always get between them having a civil conversation.

She could grudgingly admit, that he did have skill, but dammit, she was an officer of the law. She was a Detective Inspector now. She was driven and smart. She got things done.

She hit her desk with the flat of her hand, unexpectedly, a box met her fingers. "What the hell?"

Opening the box, dislodging a folded paper from beneath a rose, she saw a small sliver of a thick piece of brownie between two sugar cookies.

The letter open in her hand, she read the sloping handwriting. Narrowing her eyes at the outline of a deerstalker, much like the one she and Anderson had given Sherlock as a jab, she reread the note.

_Sally. You are a powerfully smart woman. Stop being an ass. I would have given you a bigger slice of brownie, but let's admit it, you screwed Sherlock royally. You are a great detective. Yes. But you let your emotions dictate the evidence three years ago. You let yourself be played. Remember that. Always look at the evidence with eyes not shadowed by your desire to strike out at Sherlock. If you had his back, he would have had yours. Be smarter. I know you can be. Remember that while you eat your cookies and know you could have had more brownie. You are forgiven though._

The cookies were embossed in yellow colored sugar with the same deerstalker outline as the note.

As Sally's shoulders slumped with regret, as she stared at the small sliver of brownie, a quick snap of a well used Belstaff could be heard over the low roar of the bullpen. A tall thin man with a scruffy beard and disheveled red hair slipped out of the door.

The best pickpocket roaming London streets had managed to get one over the detectives. But, as the quote said, "I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep."

Billy had a few more packages to deliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of this poem when I thought of Billy Wiggins for some reason, so I had to add a little Frost into the story. 
> 
> Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening  
> BY ROBERT FROST  
> Whose woods these are I think I know.  
> His house is in the village though;  
> He will not see me stopping here  
> To watch his woods fill up with snow. 
> 
> My little horse must think it queer  
> To stop without a farmhouse near  
> Between the woods and frozen lake  
> The darkest evening of the year. 
> 
> He gives his harness bells a shake  
> To ask if there is some mistake.  
> The only other sound’s the sweep  
> Of easy wind and downy flake. 
> 
> The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep.


	7. Falling Petals

Chap 7 Falling Petals

As Sherlock thought about whatever had caught his attention, Molly looked out over London. Hearing the distant ring of Big Ben, she smiled. Billy had to be finished with the Yard. She was so glad that she had met him. Billy Wiggins had a lot of potential, just needed to be pointed in the right direction. Give him a couple more months and perhaps he'll be sent out on some missions with Max and Pa in London. Until then, he was learning the forensic part of her job. 

She wondered if Sherlock had realized that his protégé was moonlighting as her assistant. 

The night was creeping along the rooftops of the city, chasing after the setting sun. The frenetic hum of London was deepening into the steady thrum of a heartbeat at rest when Sherlock finally stirred again. 

"So, why do you come to the roof?" Sherlock queried. 

"To remember." 

Molly watched as he picked up the deep red rose that rested on the ledge next to him, she knew that he was equally aware of the other red rose that quivered in the wind across the roof. 

"You mean sentiment." There was only the barest frosting of contempt in the statement. 

So different than what would have been present just a handful of years ago. 

"Despite what your brother has taught you, caring is what saves people, Sherlock. You are living proof of that. Sentiment saved you three years ago, and your 'caring' for John, Mrs. H, and Lestrade, saved them." Molly sighed. "Haven't you learned this yet?" 

She could feel the indignation puffing up his wiry frame. Suddenly, like a balloon being popped, he deflated. "Explain it to me, Molly. Teach me something." 

Pleased with the detective, she reached over to rest her hand once again around his wrist. Molly could feel the ragged beat of his heart. Must be driving him bonkers not to be able to regulate his bodily reactions. 

"Alright. It's like this, Sherlock. Caring, or as you call it, sentiment, basically runs nearly all of the typicals reactions. It's why we do things, why we help each other, why we go out of our way to be there for one another. For some, it's why they go to work, because they care for their families. For others, it's why they will run into a burning building. Sentiment governs the interactions of humanity. If there were no sentiment, men would not march off to war, asnd women would not spend hours slaving over a hot meal for their families. Typicals need it to survive. To give purpose to what they do. They may call it love or duty, but at the base of it, it's sentiment. Caring." Molly watched Sherlock's face as he concentrated what she revealed. 

It was a puzzle piece to Sherlock. Humanity, he might understand that as a whole, might be able to tear it apart to see how the interactions as a whole function, but humans? The individual of the species continually flabbergasted him. He could not figure out why they did certain things, what truly drove them to do it, beyond certain evil ambitions such as greed and envy. He could not wrap his mind around the softer emotions. 

"So, as Mycroft always said, sentiment is a disadvantage." Sherlock nodded his head, certain of his brother's hypothesis. "It weakens you."

"Humph." She kicked at the wall. "Your brother is a know-it-all arse. And believe me, I've had that conversation with him more than once!" 

"You and Mycroft…."

Like a dog with a bone just out of his reach, Sherlock snagged on the fact that Molly and Mycroft had had more than an odd conversation. 

Derailing that subject before it bore fruit, Molly dragged Sherlock back to the topic on hand. "For someone who professes to despise sentiment so much, Mycroft sure does display it a lot."

"What do you mean? He likes to stick his large nose into everyone's business, tries to buy off my acquaintances….did he approach you?" Sherlock jumped upon the reasonable assumption. 

"Of course he did, the big buffoon." She scoffed. "He failed."

"We could have split the payout you know." 

Molly pinned the detective with laser sharp annoyance in her gaze. "Sentiment, Sherlock. It is what saved you. It is what saved your three. It's why Moriarty went after me. It's why you attempted to rescue me. And now, it's why my scars bother you so much. Even you, who plays so well at being an intellectual robot is governed by sentiment." 

London's deep fog was settling in amongst the various buildings, obscuring the valiant attempt of illumination by the multiple streetlamps. It muffled the resting heartbeat of the city, cocooning the two on the roof in their own little world. Both of them, living in the world, but not really a part of it for their own reasons, their own fears. 

The mist that came with the fog, found them there on the roof, coating their hair in its slick wetness while crystalizing the roses where they laid. 

Molly slowly started to pluck the delicate petals off of the white rose in her hand. She could see how bits of fog swirled from sudden updrafts that there was still enough wind to help her petals fly. 

"Let's walk through it shall we? At first, it was the game." A petal drifted from her fingers over the edge, Sherlock's eyes followed the descent. "It was a bit thrilling, finally to meet someone who could keep up with your mind. John was great and all, but sometimes you needed to sharpen the edge. Moriarty was daring, a bit psychotic…alright, a lot. He did what you've thought about, but will never do."

Sherlock's gaze flew back to her own steady one. "That's what makes you different by the way."

Another pure white petal left her hand, even as the first caught a draft from a window, and twisted and turned further out into the night. 

"But, then, the game got serious. It was different when it was strangers, but he went after John. Your chosen companion. Someone you let in. Someone, well, someone you cared about. You still felt the thrill, but this was a bit more shaky. He was unpredictable while John was solid. You could trust John, and you decided, because he did the unthinkable for you and saved you, you had to do the same for him. Except you couldn't. Nasty boom and all that. Moriarty got away. For a while." 

The falling duo became three, the fog obscuring where the first had landed. 

"Slowly, with great precision, Moriarty planted the bugs, and tore you down. People bought it, because you were an unknown. You were this undefinable man who blew into situations like you owned them and usually tore people down as you went." Sherlock sputtered. Molly raised her eyebrow at him and with a twist of his lips, he subsided. 

"You always bulldozed or tricked your way into getting what you wanted. When a kind word would have gotten it easier, as well as garnered resources, you preferred to reduce them into tears. You made them feel inferior because YOU feel inferior to them."

"Now wait a minute, I do not feel inferior to those imbeciles! I have a superior intellect and that is the truth." 

Molly held up another petal and pointed at him. "Emotionally, you are. Most of them can handle human interaction while it remains much like a mystery to you. This is where sentiment comes into play, Sherlock." 

She dropped the petal into the wind. "Who stood by you though, when people started to doubt?" 

The detective looked at her seriously, "You did."

"No. I mean John. He showed you that the trust that you had in him wasn't misplaced. He didn't waver in his belief that you were the real deal. So out of that, sentiment, you did the ultimate thing. You died to protect him. You had his back because you knew that he had yours. He proved that. Then you proved it." 

Another petal from the diminishing pile found its wings. 

"Sentiment drove you to your fall, while sentiment kept you safe. Mycroft planned everything to the most absurd level, your network pulled off everything perfectly, my sentiment made me willing to risk my job as well as bring the attention of that psychopathic criminal back to me." 

Sherlock reluctantly nodded. When put like that he could see how the main thread that governed everyone's actions was indeed sentiment. 

Leaning further over the edge, Molly opened her hand, letting the breeze caress and ultimately lift the petals off of her palm. They danced around in front of the duo before going on their own adventure. 

Molly laughed, "We're not even going to go into the fact that you still worked to protect Mary even though she shot you. But, I'll clue you in, you care for her and you care for John. Sentiment made you go after Magnussen, nothing less, Sherlock." 

She picked up the bare stem, handing it over to the man. He ran his fingers over the sharp thorns that littered the green stick. 

"You know, sentimentality, caring, whatever you want to call it, it's a lot like a rose. There is great beauty in the flower, but it is surrounded by hardships, like those thorns. It doesn't detract, but actually enhances the beauty." 

Sherlock looked at the woman who had stood by him for so long, never expecting anything in return. She did it because she saw something in him that she deemed worthy. Molly always looked past the thorns and saw the rose in its full beauty. She was simply an amazing woman, who could not be categorized.


	8. Smiling Missives

**Chapter 8**   
**Smiling Missives**

Mrs. Hudson scrubbed at the burnt on food that layered the pot. She might have gotten a little sleepy after having a nip of her medicinals. Luckily though, before the whole pot of chowder had gone bad, she had come to her senses.

Humming to some of the Big Band music that was playing, she thought about her boy. He was a special man, just needed a few good shakes to get the heart above the head sometimes.

Those shakes were coming in the form of John and his lovely bride, Mary. That handsome detective inspector, Greg, and the lovely timid morgue girl, Molly, always had Sherlock's back. Her boy's friends were all intriguing in their own right and he tended to collect equally broken people who were all a bit deadly. He didn't have many friends, but the ones who decided to call him their own, refused to let him shake them loose.

Her boy had a heart of gold somewhere under that armor of Belstaff and nice suits. His weapons of choice might be scathing looks and curled lips around cutting remarks, but his heart was always very focused on protecting those he decided were his.

Hard to believe, she had almost lost him three years ago. Oh, she knew what day it was. How could she not? That was the worst day of her life.

Worse than knowing that her husband had finally been executed for his crimes, because let's admit it, she rejoiced that day.

But, to watch his casket being lowered into the ground, to see that lovely Dr. Watson break apart. To see those horrid reporters outside Baker Street, to see those vengeful hateful tabloids spreading those vitriol comments against her boy. Oh, she could just go after them all with her husband's semi-automatic!

Plopping the cleaned pot onto the drying rack, she turned around while drying her hands. There, resting on her breakfast table was a pretty pink and yellow box, and next to it was a full vase of lovely white roses.

Mrs. Hudson looked about to see either riotous curls or a precise military cut, but instead saw the barest hint of reddish hair outside her window as a young man cut across the small courtyard. He looked vaguely familiar.

Shrugging it off, she sniffed at the posies. She rarely got flowers anymore, actually, the last ones she got were from that sweet Molly for her birthday last year.

Sitting down, she pulled free the folded card that was tied to the box.

_Mrs. H, you are such a lovely woman. I am so glad to know that you are there to take care of Sherlock. To watch the two of you together, you are a mother to him. He may be rough around the edges and a little hurtful when he says something, but he protects you like a rabid dog. I don't know if he sees exactly how important you are to him, but I do. London would indeed fall if something happened to you. But, I'm glad to know that you are not without your own defense if something happened. You are rather dangerous in your own right. Your boy is safe, and he was willing to do what needed to be done to protect you. He loves you. I hope one day you can hear that from his own lips, though I'm sure you see it in his actions._

A similar little yellow smiley face to the one that graced her wallpaper upstairs graced the lower right hand of the note.

Sniffling and sopping up the tears that brimmed with her handkerchief, she pulled loose the ribbons around the box. Nestled next to a large thick gooey brownie was a small bottle of superb sherry. Another little note was stuck to the glass, _"I won't tell_."

Laughing, she got up and grabbed one of her good sherry glasses and poured the liquid medicine into it.

"Oh, Sherlock, you need to marry that girl! Love you, my dear boy."

****************************

"Anthea, make sure that Uzbekistan's ambassador's has a watch. Three on him at all times while he is in our fair country." Mycroft threw his silver plated pen to the desk top. Closing the folder, he handed it over to his deadly girl Friday.

Reaching out to pick it up, Anthea suddenly dropped her phone as well as her tablet, smoothly plucking the gun from the small of her back. She pushed Mycroft under the table while sounding the alert.

The softest click could be heard as the door closed behind the unannounced intruder. She tracked the movement of the unknown person as they stepped into her office on the other side of the wall.

Two soft thumps brought an exasperated sigh from Anthea as she called off the security team. "False alarm."

"Code?" came the warble from her earpiece.

"MH007SHRED" Anthea recited as she helped her boss back to his feet.

"Confirmed. False alarm."

As Mycroft settled back into his chair, smoothing down his slightly rumpled tie, Anthea stalked to the door.

" _SERIOUSLY_?!" The usually serene woman yelled at the intruder.

Mycroft was having trouble making out what the man was saying in his defense, when there was the sounds of a struggle, before Anthea marched none other than his little brother's pet project, Billy Wiggins, into the office.

"Mr. Wiggins. Whatever brings you to my door? Does Sherlock have you spying?" Winging his eyebrow in that particularly daunting way that the Holmes boys had, Mycroft paced in front of the pickpocket.

"Nah, Gov'nr. H' didn't." Billy jerked the scruff of his familiar, but ragged Belstaff from Anthea's grasp.

Anthea held up the two boxes adorned with white roses for Mycroft to look at. "I do believe, sir, that we are recipients of Dr. Hooper's generosity."

Swallowing thickly, Mycroft cleared his throat. He knew what was awaiting him in that cheery pink and yellow box. Placing his shaky hands behind his back, he looked sternly at the man before him.

"I know for a fact that Dr. Hooper would not have you sneaking into places. I assume she has you playing delivery boy? You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Well, see, now, she did." Straightening his shoulders in the best imitation of Sherlock's arrogance that Mycroft had seen in quite a while, Billy smirked at him. "Molly did told me to make it quiet like, not to be caught none."

"I'm sure she meant at the Yard, not here where you are liable to get shot." Billy wiggled a little at that, smoothing down his red hair, not looking at Mycroft.

Anthea smacked the pickpocket's head smartly. " 'ey now! Be watching the merchandise you do!"

"Idiot. Talk like those brain cells are firing." Sitting the boxes on the smooth walnut desk, she pocketed her phone.

"Yes, William Wiggins. You received two doctorates before you even turned 20. You have the schooling, but you insist on talking like a guttersnipe. Why is that?" Mycroft perched near where his assistant was standing. Closer to those decadent boxes.

Billy stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets as he rocked back on his worn heels. "Simple really. I have a total of 38 confirmed patents and another twenty odd ones pending review. Some are for the simple consumer, numerous ones are governmentally intriguing. I am an oddity that you would like to control. I am perfectly fine where I am and doing what I am doing at the moment. Dr. Hooper is attempting to reform me, while your brother is showing me the ropes to deducing, I am content. For the first time, I have found a place that accepts me for my oddity. So, excuse me, Gov'nr, I must be gitn' off to me duties, as the miss has a bit more of a list."

Sarcastically throwing a salute at the man who ran the British Government, he nodded respectfully to Anthea, and sauntered out of the office.

"Curious man. My brother does seem to collect them." Shrugging, Mycroft turned back to those mocking boxes.

"Here you go sir, this one is for you." Anthea slid a box across to him, and picked up hers. "If you need anything, I'll be outside."

"Of course, thank you." Mycroft kept his shaky hands clasped as his assistant walked out to her own desk. _Damn. It's like I'm **the** bloody addict._ It was all he could do not to jump on the box like a ravaging animal.

Attempting to ignore the treat waiting for him, he sat at his desk. Pulling up Sherlock's GPS on his multiple phones, he aimed the British satellite at his brother. As he waited for the image to clear, he finally pulled the box in front of him.

Nestled among the ribbons and rose was a card.

_Mycroft, you are a marshmallow. You sure have a lot of people fooled. But, oh, if only they could see you with your little brother. Especially, when he is in danger. You say caring is not an advantage, so why do you care so much? You seem to have focused so much on protecting Sherlock that you forgot to take those lessons to heart as well. Curious._   
_Either way, I am glad you care so much for the prat. You got him through the Fall, you continually keep him honest about his drug use, and you even found a way to protect him after that most recent incident. As well as bringing him back._   
_While I never believe I will see a true brotherly hug between you two, I do know that he cares for you just as much. Try to remember that the next time he needles you. It won't be long._   
_He'd be lost without you._   
_P.S I know you are trying to lose weight. But, I know you like this cake. Does that mean I am an enabler to your drug of choice? Oh, well. Shoot me._

Mycroft ran his thumb over the embossed yellow smiley face in the corner as he watched the image sharpen. The satellite showed the top of St. Bart's roof, where two people sat with their legs dangling over the edge.

"I would be lost without you, brother dear." Mycroft sat there eating the most decadent piece of Death by Chocolate cake that he had ever had, while he watched Dr. Hooper and Sherlock talk on the very rooftop that nearly took his brother away from him.

He tried to swallow the near orgasmic moan as he took another bite, but failed. "Bloody hell, that woman can bake."

*****  
Outside Mycroft's office, Anthea pulled free her card as she heard that moan.

_Anthea, I know I don't have to say, "Keep Mycroft safe," because you will protect him to your dying day._   
_Man, girl, we sure fell in love with some crazy ones didn't we?_   
_Don't forget, Mary, you and I at Mrs. H's in 2 weeks. I'll bring the brownies! :-)_   
_Girls' night!_   
_Keep your gun loaded and your eyes open._

Snorting, Anthea looked at that blasted smiley face that grinned up at her. She dug into the brownie with gusto, knowing that she'd be at the gym in two hours. Get some target practice in and maybe try that new gun that Mycroft had left on her desk.

Such a sweetie.  
*****


	9. Got a friend in you

Molly and Sherlock watched the sun set over the town, glum settling quickly into the nooks and crannies of the buildings. 

They sat quietly, neither speaking as the air cooled rapidly while the fog thickened. Somewhere within that fog, white petals danced in the updrafts created by vents surrounding St. Bart's. Distant sirens could be heard as ambulances and police raced to some unknown calamity. 

"I do thank you Molly. What you have done for me, not just in the last few months, or during the Fall, but during the whole time we have known each other…you have continually helped me. Unselfishly, without me asking. Your faith in me…" Sherlock's voice petered out, as he struggled to form his thoughts. 

Molly continued to sit quietly, not attempting to help him. He suppressed the need to squirm at her quiet consideration. She was not going to let him brush it off as was his wont. Doctor Molly Hooper deserved the words though. No matter how hard it was to get them past his lips. 

"I know I have taken you for granted. Too much. You would have been in your rights to turn me away. I know your friends, such as they are, tried to talk you out of being my friend…I did not even realize you were my friend, until it was almost too late." Sherlock sighed as he rubbed his hands over his chilled face in frustration. "I am sorry. I am so, so sorry." 

Reaching over, Sherlock locked his hand around her delicate yet capable hand. Turning it over, he rubbed his thumb across her palm, feeling her slight shiver at the sensation. For the first time he spoke to her without artifice, "Friendship, I do not understand it. I barely can handle it with John. Poor man has been drugged by me, been verbally abused, threatened life and limb, nearly blown up and burnt. He had to bury me and then deal with the betrayal of not only me coming back, but the ramifications of the lies that protected him. I am rubbish at being a friend. That's the truth." 

He sighed again. Tightening his fingers around her hand, he brought it over to rest on his thigh. Continuing to rub her palm, he looked out over his town. "As you so easily deduced, I do not understand emotions. I understand facts, clues, science. I do not understand humans. So, instead of just asking you for help, I did what I always do, I deduced you and found what I thought were weaknesses to twist you to do my will. I never realized that you just wanted to help me." 

Sherlock looked at the woman next to him. "Like I told John, I never expected to be someone's friend, so why would I think myself to be one?" 

He watched a tear shimmer on the tips of her eyelashes before trailing down her cheek. "I always seem to drive women to tears." A self-deprecating chuckle fell from his lips as he wiped away the moisture. 

"Good tears Sherlock, good tears." A watery smile lite up Molly's face. 

Sighing again, but this time as if some sort of weight had lifted off of the detective's shoulders. They turned their faces back to looking out over London, and Sherlock slipped his long fingers in between Molly's, clasping her hand tightly.


	10. Forgiveness Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary get brownies. Introducing Kella Mae!

_**Chapter 10 Forgiveness found** _

"Damnit, Mary! This thing will be the death of me. Bloody engineers got to make everything twice as difficult." The baby squealed as her daddy attempted to remove the stroller from the boot. "Can't you just walk now muffin?" Taking a moment to chuck his little princess's chin, John sighed.

"You can figure your way around a body, but not a few pieces of plastic." Shaking her head in amusement, Mary Morstan Watson pushed her husband out of the way and collapsed the stroller with a gentle touch.

Leaving his capable wife to deal with the car's victim, John juggled a giggling thirteen month old, "And this, Kella Mae, is why I will always wear you as a backpack."

Mary rested the collapsed stroller against the doorway as she brought her keys out of her pocket. "Just wait until she gets a little heavier, then you'll be begging for this stroller."

"Nah. I'd carry you to the moon, my little warrior." Busking a kiss on the sweet skin of his daughter's cheek, he pointed at the shining orb peeking through fog and smog. "By the way, Kella, no matter what Uncle Sherlock says, the moon is important."

Hearing Mary's laugh cut off, he turned to see his wife grab her gun from her purse and slowly push open their front door. While he itched to grab his own weapon, he chose to protect his daughter. Stepping back to the road, he cuddled Kella as he dialed Lestrade.

"Greg? Hey, we've got a break in. Mary's checking it out, but I'm with Kella." John tracked Mary's dim shadow through the curtains as she crept into the home.

The detective asked an odd question, "Do you know what day it is?"

"What's that got to do with anything? Mary's probably going to shoot first and ask questions later, we know she likes triggers!" After putting the cell into his shoulder, John grasped the gun that rested on his ankle while his daughter looked around with wide eyes.

Lestrade asked another question, equally as odd. "Have you had any brownies today?"

Mary's strident voice came through the open door as a shadow escaped through a window on the side. "Dammit to hell, Billy Wiggins!"

The laughter of a young male floated through the foggy air as long coat disappeared around a corner. "I assume you got a visit then, Greg?" John asked as he hitched Kella up higher on his narrow hips.

The chuckle that rolled through the phone was answer enough. "Talk to you later, John."

Putting the gun back into his ankle holster, John walked across the street with Kella, who was babbling away. "Mary? Mary!"

"Here, Love." Mary popped her head around the corner of the entryway, with a relieved look on her face when she saw her husband and child. "It's okay. It was Sherlock's urchin friend, Billy. He left something on the table for you."

Taking the sleepy baby from her husband, Mary pointed towards the kitchen. Watching Kella nestle into Mary's neck, made John's heart shudder. He was so in love with his girls. Rubbing his daughter's back gently while pressing a kiss to his wife's cheek, he vowed once again to do anything needed to protect them.

Shucking his familiar Haversack coat as he went, he walked further into their cozy home, stepping around the various toys that were strewn about the room from the last great stuffed animal battle that Kella Mae had waged. His little warrior had good aim.

In a beautiful vase, a dozen white roses surrounded one brilliant red rose graced the kitchen counter. A good sized pink and yellow stripped box sat next to it with two folded cards on top. With sloping handwriting, John's and Mary's names graced the folded paper. Hearing the telly turn on to one of the old fashioned American cartoons that Kella loved, he waited for his wife to join him in the kitchen.

Feeling the press of her hand low on his back, John sighed. "Do you know what day it is?"

"I didn't want to say anything. If you had forgotten for one day…I didn't want to be the one to bring it up." Mary admitted softly.

"I knew. But, I decided to not mull today. Not to drag you and Kella down there with me. No drinking, no anguish. I wasn't going to see Sherlock either. Just one day. Not nagging me in the back of the head, no questions…" John's shoulders quaked as he attempted to hold in the sob that beat at the back of his throat. With Mary's arm bracing him around his waist, John leaned into the embrace, his military bearing shattering.

John reached out to touch the pure white of the rose, but watching his hand tremble made him drop it back down to the counter.

"Do you want to read it?" Mary asked.

He handed his card over to Mary, "You read it."

Nestling under his braced arm, she opened his note. With a clear, but quiet voice, she read:

_Dear John,_   
_I have debated long and hard what I would say to you if given the chance. When Sherlock came back, I knew you hesitated around me. You have no idea how hard it was to keep that secret. We never discussed it, and I attempted to bring it up once or twice, but I saw how you started to shut down. So, I kept my peace._   
_I do not ask for forgiveness. Some betrayals are impossible to forgive._   
_I do think you understand why I did it, but, still._   
_I actually tried to get him to tell you, so many times while we planned his fall. But, in his usual arrogant way he decided that if you knew, all would be forfeit. I realized later that it was his way of protecting you._   
_I hope you realize how very shattered that man was when he made the decision. You were the one to break down the barriers around his heart. You made the robot that the world saw into a real man as the old movie says. For him to walk away from that friendship for two years, was unimaginably hard for him._   
_You would have been the better choice to protect him. I just tried to get him through the day._   
_I'm glad you are back at his side. And, I'm glad that at least on keeping him honest on the drug side of things, you still trust me to tell the truth. Sherlock is still afraid. He is doing everything he possibly can to rat out criminals who might come in contact with you and your precious family._   
_If need be, I will do the same._   
_With sincerity,_   
_Molly_

John grasped the card that Mary handed over. "I never blamed her. You know? I just couldn't…I needed more time."

"I know. I think she knows too. She's still trying to take the blame though, she doesn't want you and Sherlock to break anymore." Mary watched her husband pinch the bridge of his nose as if to keep any moisture from leaving his eyes as he breathed heavily.

The only sound in the room was the distant giggles of their little girl as she watched Wiley Coyote chase after the Road Runner.

Clearing his throat, John motioned to the other card. "Go ahead. Read yours."

_Mary,_   
_I am so pleased that John found you. That you accepted the craziness that is Sherlock. That little Kella Mae is part of this bizarre family that has seemed to form around those two men._   
_We're all broken in different ways. Somehow, with the help of these men, we have glued ourselves into a semblance of being human again. Amazing._   
_Take care of these men, Mary. Between you and Anthea, I know their backs will be watched._   
_Ps. I know shooting at Sherlock is always an option…please refrain from doing it again._   
_Pps. Don't forget we're meeting up at Ms. H's!_   
_Love_   
_Molly_

"She really has no clue what she does for this group does she?" Mary asked in amazement.

John shook his head as he touched the roses. "No, she doesn't. Between Sherlock tearing her down and me ignoring her…we haven't really built her up much. Thankfully it sounds like you and Anthea are changing that. You know, she actually kept us all from truly imploding after Sherlock…fell."

Mary nodded her agreement as she looked at her husband's finger caressing the flowers.

"So, bets on what is in the box?" A wobbly smile graced his face as some bits of sorrow and resentment faded from his gaze.

"Brownies!" Mary promptly said.

"Blast, that's what I was going to say!" The box opened showing a large amount of thickly cut chocolate brownies piled on the parchment paper.

"Yumm, we both win."

Pressing a kiss into his wife's hair, John whispered, "We all do."

****************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with how I wanted to do John's missive from Molly. I hope perhaps I might have given some closure for John and Molly over the betrayal of keeping Sherlock's fake death secret.


	11. Corpses and Roses

Chapter 11 Corpses and Roses

As they sat watching the last white petals disappear into the thickening London fog, Sherlock plucked the red rose off of the ledge. Holding the prefect bloom up for inspection, he quirked his expressive eyebrow at his pathologist. "What is the meaning of the red rose?"

Aware of the flower that quivered in the breeze in the middle of the roof, Molly sighed as she kicked at the side of the roof. "It's to remember what was, what is, and what could have been." 

"Moriarty? Why would you want to remember that psychopath?" Sherlock growled. "Plus, you do know we are not actually dead, right?"

"No shit, Sherlock." Exasperated Molly shook her head. "But, without Jim, you never would have jumped. If you never" Molly did the air quotes as she said, "died', John would never have meet Mary, never would have married her and now we wouldn't have that gorgeous little Kella Mae in our lives." 

Sherlock rubbed his chest, where a scarred wound pinched. "Never would have shot me…" 

"Which would make a sad world." She quipped. 

A wounded expression mixed with large puppy dog eyes, made her giggle, but her gentle nature made her reach out and pat the detective on the arm. "Oh, come off of it! You know, every single person who loves you dearly has probably contemplated shooting you or strangling you at one point or another. You are a frustrating man, sir." 

"Yet, you still come around." Sherlock said with an arrogant sneer.

"And yet, we still love you." Molly corrected sternly. "And I come around?! Who keeps walking into MY morgue whenever the experimenting mood strikes? Who keeps sticking his nose into MY relationships as if I ever asked for your opinion?" She swung her hand at his chest, correcting it at the last moment to hit opposite of the still tender wound. 

"Molly!" An aggrieved Sherlock hunched away from the striking force of the hand. "Careful!" 

"Fifteen months of healing and your scar is still sore. You need to see about that scar tissue before it really causes problems. How has John not realized that it still is bugging you?" Molly asked in a much recited complaint.

Popping his collar on his Belstaff, Sherlock shrugged. "I do not show him how much it still pulls." 

"Ah, yes. Mind over matter. Of course." Molly nodded sagely and promptly rolled her eyes. "Honestly though, you need to check that scar tissue. People can die from it wrapping around organs." 

"Yes, Ms. Molly." Conceding to the plea, Sherlock nodded. "I will tell John tomorrow."  
"If you don't, I'll tell Mycroft AND John. They'll make sure you go to a specialist." 

"That's just mean! You would not truly do that to me, would you?" 

"In a heartbeat." Even as she was starting to turn around on the ledge to get off, her mobile started to ring loudly. The strains of "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum, brought a chuckle from Sherlock. 

Digging it out of her lab coat, she answered, "Dr. Hooper. Oh yes, how many? Call in Jean. Humm? Detective Inspector Lestrade will need reports as soon as possible. Yes. Make sure the lab is full. ETA on the bodies? 30 minutes? All right, bring in extra tables, put them along the hallway. Make sure the coffee is going, it'll be a long night." Disconnecting the call, she sighed. 

Sherlock was standing before her with his bare hand out. Hesitantly, Molly looked up into his eyes as she placed her hand in his as he helped her to her feet. "Body load? Must be mass causality if you are requesting more tables. Murder if Lestrade is involved." 

Nodding her head sadly, she answered, "Seems like a shooting combo with poison. At least three children under ten. Hate these types of days." 

In a move totally un-calculated and extremely tender, Sherlock tucked a wisp of escaped hair behind his pathologist's ear. He watched her eyes widen in shock at the touch, which was soon accompanied by a gasp when Sherlock pressed a kiss once more to the crescent scars near her lips. He paused, leaning his forehead against hers for a brief moment, "You will give them dignity and will gain the answers needed to find their killer. You, Molly Hooper, are their best chance to be put to rest." 

Releasing a shuddering breath, Molly smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock. That means a lot to me."

"There's a reason why your my pathologist after all." He said with a touch of his usual arrogance. 

Laughing, Molly started across the roof towards the door as Sherlock slowly trailed behind her. His gaze lingered on the faded posters that were glued to the tar paper. Declarations of belief and faith in Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective. The heart he denied having tugged hard, and he tried to disregard it as the wound twinging. 

Even the most honest man in the world lies to himself. 

His mobile started to buzz as he caught up to Molly, slipping through the door before it closed. "Lestrade. Where? Aldergate Street and Postman's Park? Yes, I am at Bart's with Molly. How many? Nine? Do not let Anderson touch anything! Still? Fine, do not let Donovan get her fingers on anything. On my way." He disconnected the call before Lestrade could add anything. 

Even as he started to punch up John's number, he passed Molly on the stairs, his mind started to go through the map of London and what the houses near Postman's Park looked like. Molly's presence had started to fade from his attention, when the faint hint of lemon and pomegranate with the overtone of sinful chocolate teased his nose. Pausing eight steps down from the landing that Molly had finally reached, he looked at his pathologist. He could tell that she was formulating her plan of attack on the coming autopsies. Her eyes were distant, but calculating. 

"Molly?" She did not acknowledge him. Wondering if he was that oblivious to outside stimuli when in the midst of a case, he stood resolute as she came down the last stair, bumping into him. At her startled gasp, he steadied her by wrapping his large hands around her delicate frame. "Molly. Do pay attention." 

Watching her cheeks redden with a becoming flush, an honest smile graced Sherlock's face. "Whaa? I mean, yes Sherlock?" 

"Be careful tonight. Do not be alone in the morgue." Sherlock tightened his grip slightly on her hips. 

Molly's brow furrowed as she searched his gaze. "What is it? You don't think it's Moriarty do you? Mycroft has him in a deep pit." 

"No," He rushed to ease the edge of panic that was starting to show in Molly's eyes. For some reason, he felt the need to keep her calm and protected. "But, something is wrong with this case. Lestrade thinks it's a mass murder/suicide, but I think the killer is still out there. He seems driven and vindictive. Going after children…something darker going on here." 

He felt his own mind start to slid away from the conversation, when Molly's hand touched his cheek. "I'll be careful, Sherlock. Never alone. Catch him before he does this to another child." The slight callouses on her fingertips rasped upon his skin, causing a shiver to unexpectedly go down his spine. "And you, be careful. I'll see you in an hour I'm sure." 

She rubbed her thumb across his cheekbone once, before scooting around his tall frame and quickly running down the rest of the steps. 

After shaking his head hard, he dialed John's number. 

They had a case to solve. 

***********************


	12. Brownie Dreams

**Chapter 12- Brownie Dreams**

Nearly forty eight hours after Sherlock left the roof of St. Bart's, John Watson dragged a semi-delusional detective up the stairs to 221b Baker Street. "Dammit, I told you to eat something!"

"Brownies." Sherlock mumbled.

John's shorter frame struggled to get the tall man through doorway. "Brownies? You had brownies with Molly? That was two days ago!" With a grunt he threw his friend onto the couch.

After his head bounced twice, Sherlock found the London Jack pillow, and was out for the count. Shaking his own head, John pulled a blanket off the back the couch to wrap up the exhausted man. He knew that it would be at least another two days before Sherlock showed his face to the outside world.

Glancing around at his old flat, his eyes snagged on a large pink and yellow box. It was larger than the box that he and Mary had gotten, big enough to hold two batches of brownies. Next to the box, was a large note written in thick black lettering, **SOUP IN FRIDGE. EAT.** John smiled. Molly took care of Sherlock.

Curious though he was to what was in the folded note under the silken roses, he left the flat, stopping in to for a quick chat with Mrs. Hudson. He was eager to get home to his girls.

***********  
Many hours later a groggy man would sit down with a box of brownies and a large bowl of soup. He would open a note stuck under a handful of fake yet perfectly formed red roses, that would find their way into a small vase near a skull that graced the mantle.

_Sherlock,_   
_I'm sure by now you have rested at least a little bit. You need at least another day of full sleep. Finish the container of soup. A casserole is in the fridge on top of a new container of lungs. Eat it. The casserole, not the lungs. :-)_   
_Come and tell me how you caught him on Wednesday. That's in three days. Not a moment before. SLEEP. Then have some fun with the lungs. I might have some brains by then._   
_Good catch as always._

Rubbing his thumb across the embossed smiley face in the corner, Sherlock Holmes smiled sleepily. Molly Hooper, Pathologist Extreme, always found some way to take care of him.

As he went back to the couch, his last thought was if she had liked the latest soundtrack of _Glee_ and the soft jumper covered in roses that he had managed to sneak into her flat after the end of the case, before John had dragged him home. He hoped she wore it on Wednesday.

A yawn heralded the closing of the eyes of the most observant man in the world.

A man who was just starting to realize the power of sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking it out with me! This concludes the second installment to "The Morgue Mouse."  
> I might do another one...Maybe.


End file.
